


taste like money when I speak

by silentdescant



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anonymous Sex, Beards (Relationships), Class Differences, Hook-Up, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 13:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10618227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: Mitch wants an experience he can't get in his buttoned-up, high society world.





	

Kirstie holds her drink like it’s a grenade, and while Mitch tries not to do the same, he can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the wet glass as he touches it. His Margielas are _sticking to the floor_. This place is disgusting, and he’s having a hard time remembering why he ever wanted to come here.

“This is gross,” Kirstie murmurs to him, and though Mitch agrees, he’s disinclined to say so aloud. He downs half his drink like he’s not bothered and shrugs one shoulder. Kirstie scoffs and says, “Can we at least get away from this bar? I think my skin has adhered to it.”

They retreat to huddle around a cramped table by the wall. It’s just as sticky and wet with spilled… something, but at least they’re not standing out like a sore thumb in the middle of the bar. At least, Mitch hopes they aren’t. They both dressed down for this little adventure, but Mitch has quickly realized that their version of dressing down is not at all what these people consider casual club attire.

The crowd is loud and pushy, and Mitch wants to try out the dance floor—he wants that experience with all his heart—but his knowledge is limited to a tasteful waltz, and no matter how much he dances around his bedroom, he would look like a fool if he tried to join in with these people. There are already enough fools out there, grinding sloppily against each other.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the club changes, like a shockwave passing through the room. Mitch stands tall to see over Kirstie’s head and spots a group of people coming in like they own the place. The way the crowd parts for them, he guesses they must be regulars. There are maybe ten or twelve people in the group, a mix of men and women, striding arrogantly toward the bar. They’re loud when they order, shouting at each other and the bartenders, and though they’re clearly in good spirits, Mitch recoils at the obnoxious scene they make. Two tall men, a ridiculously muscled black guy and a blond with a sleeve of dark tattoos, seem to be the leaders, and they take shots and jeer at each other. Mitch’s brow creases and he rolls his eyes at their lack of manners, but there’s something so entrancing about them that he can’t look away.

Kirstie wrinkles her nose and crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn’t even have to speak to make herself clear: she’s more than ready to leave.

Three different guys hit on her in the space of the next five minutes. They’re crude and pushy and all of them smell terrible, like sweat and cheap beer and five dollar body spray, and after she shoves the third guy away, she turns to Mitch and says, “Are you done with this little experiment yet?”

Mitch’s eyes drift to the dance floor of their own accord, and he stares at the tall blond asshole grinding against some other generic pretty boy’s ass. Part of Mitch still wishes he could be one of them, unashamed and loud and filthy with sweat, but the reality of this club is far less appealing than the idea of it. Everything smells and it’s hot and humid and sticky everywhere, and it’s too loud to hear himself think, much less carry on an intelligent conversation. Maybe that’s why they communicate in rude gestures and furious shouts. Mitch is about ready to give up.

He sighs and tells Kirstie he’ll be back in a minute, then heads to the bathroom to wash his hands of whatever substance is making him feel so gross. Except there’s not even any soap, and the faucet of the sink is so grimy Mitch instantly regrets touching it.

The bathroom door opens and shuts and the lock clicks, and Mitch is ready to snap at whoever just entered, but the words die on his lips when he turns around. He’s faced with the tattooed blond, in all his tattered glory. His scruffy beard is cut short but it’s unkempt, and his hair is thick and wavy, unstyled and sweaty. His clothes are ripped to shreds, more holes than fabric, and sure, maybe it’s an aesthetic choice, and Mitch appreciates all the bared skin, but it looks like the man just got into a fight with a weed wacker.

“Saw you watching me,” the man says with a confident grin. “You sure look like you need someone to loosen you up.”

Mitch takes offense to that, curling his lip in distaste. “And you think that’s you?” he asks, but the image of the blond thrusting his hips out on the dance floor comes to the forefront of his mind.

The guy smiles and corners Mitch against the sink, bracketing him with both hands. He’s entirely too tall, and Mitch has to lean back just to maintain eye contact. He can’t breathe with the man so close. He smells like sweat and sex, and heat radiates from his body, sending a flush racing across Mitch’s skin.

“You’re not that fucking hot,” Mitch murmurs. His voice shakes. He can practically taste those pink, smirking lips already.

“We both know that ain’t true,” the man replies, and without even a warning, he surges forward and catches Mitch in a sloppy kiss, wrapping his hands around Mitch’s neck to hold him still.

Mitch is shocked for a few seconds, barely reacting as the man steals his breath, but when he recovers he kisses back with fervor. In the gaps between their mouths he says, “Come on, then,” and “Fuck me,” and “Take me.”

The man whirls him around and shoves him down, bent at the waist over the grimy sink. Mitch stares at his own reflection in the stained mirror, his blown pupils and mussed hair. He’s never done something like this in his life, but this, _this_ is what he wanted. This is the experience he’s been craving. And he’ll never see this guy again, so what does it matter? He’s grinding against Mitch, and his cock is hot and hard even through his jeans.

He shoves a hand into Mitch’s pants, dragging them down over his ass, to stroke his fingers over Mitch’s hole. “You’re a stuck up little princess, aren’t you?” he says. “Maybe this’ll help.”

“Stop talking about it and just do it,” Mitch snaps. “I don’t have time for your bullshit cockiness. Either use my ass or get the fuck off me.”

“You think I’m cocky?” the man laughs. He pushes his cock—heh—against Mitch’s bare ass. “Look who’s begging already.”

“I’m not begging,” Mitch says through clenched teeth. “If you don’t get on with it, I’m leaving. You gonna fuck me or not, asshole?”

“Fuck yeah, I am.”

He pushes both hands down on Mitch’s shoulders, forcing him into a deeper bend. Mitch cranes his neck to keep his cheek from touching the dirty faucet, wincing with effort. As the man puts on a condom and slides his slippery cock up and down the crack of Mitch’s ass, though, the tension in Mitch’s body melts away and he moans.

The blond laughs and says, “You fuckin’ love it, don’t you? You think I’m a dick and that gets you off.”

Mitch closes his eyes because it’s true and it’s embarrassing, and he didn’t expect this random, hot stranger to see through him so easily. It doesn’t matter. Mitch grips the sides of the sink with both hands and pushes back to meet each of the man’s thrusts. It’s over quickly—it’s been _months_ for Mitch, and this guy knows how to _move_ —and he’s expecting to be left alone, panting and shaky after his orgasm, so Mitch sags against the sink, drooling out of the side of his mouth and slicking the porcelain beneath his cheek.

The man doesn’t leave. He wipes up the mess with a wad of toilet paper and pulls Mitch upright, sets him on his feet and holds him until he gets his balance. He dabs the spit off Mitch’s face too, beaming like he’s proud of himself for the gesture.

“Gimme your phone,” he says, and holds out his hand expectantly.

Mitch blames handing it over without question on the fact that his brain is still recovering. He watches the man— _Scott_ , he reads the upside-down name—program in his number as a new contact.

“Am I gonna see you around sometime?” Scott asks.

Mitch doesn’t want to come back to this club. It’s gross and loud and crowded, and shit, he left Kirstie alone out there for god knows how long. He doesn’t want to see Scott again; that defeats the purpose of an anonymous hookup.

Except he sort of _does_ want to see Scott again, just to have a repeat performance. _This_ is what Mitch wanted from this night away from the closeted morons who usually fuck him in hotel rooms under fake names, so stiff and scared they can barely look at him with the lights on. Not that Mitch is any different. That’s his life. He can’t have this instead. This isn’t him. This isn’t where he belongs, no matter how much he dreams about it.

Mitch’s face flames red. He takes his phone back and mutters, “I have to go,” under his breath, pushing past Scott to get to the door without another word.

Kirstie looks up from her phone when Mitch approaches, and the roll of her eyes says it all. She reaches up and brushes Mitch’s hair back into place with her perfectly manicured fingers. “I cannot believe you,” she says. “I hope you got what you wanted, because I’m not coming back to this place.”

“Yeah, we’re done here,” Mitch replies. “The bathroom didn’t have any soap.”

“Oh, sure, that’s what took you so long,” she snaps. “Who was he?”

Mitch glances over his shoulder. Scott is back with his friends, laughing and drinking like nothing happened. “The tall blond.”

Kirstie wrinkles her nose. Mitch gets it. The guy looks like a disheveled mess. But that tattered shirt shows off his thick, inked biceps, and those dirty jeans are just tight enough to make the bulge of his cock obvious. Mitch tears his eyes away and takes Kirstie’s arm. There’s no reason to stay just to ogle Scott and his obnoxious friends.

Once they’re relaxing into the peace and quiet of a cab on their way back home, Mitch swears Kirstie to secrecy. She doesn’t look insulted by Mitch’s urgency; she takes him seriously, as she always has, ever since they were whispering secrets to each other as children. They agree upon a story to explain where they were tonight and that’s the end of their little adventure. Mitch got what he needed. He’s done now.

***

Mitch has perfected the art of nodding along to idle chit-chat and looking politely interested without actually paying attention. Every few minutes he looks across the lawn for his date—her white sundress is exactly like every other girl’s white sundress, so it takes a second to find Kirstie in the sparse crowd—but she well and truly ditched him to flirt with out-of-towners, or, as she calls them, the only eligible bachelors who don’t already know that she and Mitch are an item. It’s honestly astonishing to Mitch that people actually believe they’re together, but he supposes it’s for the best.

He sighs heavily, not even bothering to hide his boredom anymore as he wanders over to the buffet. He stabs a strawberry with a fork and nibbles on the end of it, casting his gaze around the room in search of someone interesting. There is no one interesting. There’s never anyone interesting when Kirstie leaves his side. He thinks about cutting into her conversation, staking his claim by kissing her cheek or linking their arms, but that’s not fair to her. After all the secrets Mitch has shared with her, she deserves a chance to flirt with men she finds attractive who can find her attractive in return.

Mitch rests his ass on the edge of the table and pulls out his phone. It’s bad form at a social brunch like this, but he’s so far beyond done mingling and making small talk with people he hates that he can’t bring himself to care.

His thumb hovers over Scott’s contact icon. At least once a day for the past week, he contemplates texting Scott. It’s been three weeks since their… _encounter_ , and Mitch knows now how stupid he was to think all of his curiosities had been satisfied in that one evening, that one quick fuck in a dirty nightclub. He clicks—his thumb slips, that’s all, and he might as well write a simple message.

“This isn’t a damn thank you note,” he mutters to himself as he types. He doesn’t want to seem too desperate. Scott probably doesn’t even remember him.

**I still think about your cock**

Scott replies less than a minute later, which is surprising. **is this the boy from jazzd last month?**

Mitch quickly sends, **yes**

**because i still think about ur tight ass and how sweet u tasted like candy**

It’s hard to breathe for a moment. Mitch glances up quickly, scanning for any suspicious faces, but no one is paying attention to him.

**you never told me ur name**

**Mitchell**

**wanna see you again mitchy**

“That’s not my name,” Mitch grumbles. **I want you to fuck me again** , he texts instead.

**id never say no to that. i’ll come over, where r u**

**You can’t. I’ll come to u**

**well i have roommates, so you better be ok with that**

Mitch groans. That scenario isn’t very appealing either. Before he can respond, Scott sends another text:

**u in the closet?**

He looks over at Kirstie for a moment, at her wide smile and how she bats her thick, sweeping eyelashes whenever the man she’s with touches her arm.

 **No** , he writes, jabbing his phone bitterly with both thumbs. **My parents love and accept me. As long as I don’t date men and definitely don’t fuck men or even say anything about liking men at all.**

A long few seconds pass and nervousness claws at Mitch’s chest, like a monster living inside him. He said too much. This was supposed to be casual, anonymous. He’s about to put his phone back in his pocket when it vibrates in his hand.

 **I’m going out w/ friends tonight** , Scott says. **meet me @ jazzd for a repeat perf**

Mitch remembers the sticky floors of that club, the watered-down drinks, the incessantly loud music. He wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, a phantom of the grime smudged there from being bent over the disgusting bathroom sink. It was a terrible place, really. Not worth the trouble. But he’s already decided he’s going back. This time, without dragging Kirstie along for backup.

***

Scott brings over a martini, passes the glass to Mitch as he takes a long pull of his beer, and slides into the booth, his long limbs taking up far too much space. Mitch feels crowded into the corner and it would be thrilling, to have Scott’s larger, stronger body pin him there, except for the fact that there are people all around them, friends of Scott’s and random strangers, people Mitch doesn’t care to know. This is the third time Scott has invited him out, and each time before has ended in hurried blowjobs and filthy kisses in the dirtiest bathrooms Mitch has ever experienced. He’s hoping tonight will end the same way, so he can go home with his itch scratched, satisfied for at least another week.

Scott, however, seems to have different plans. He wraps his arm possessively around Mitch’s shoulders and keeps them both engaged in conversation. Mitch doesn’t want to be friends with these people. They smell like booze and sweat and weed, they all talk over each other, ratcheting up the volume until Mitch can’t hear himself think. They’re all laughing and he doesn’t understand their jokes and he sure as hell doesn’t want to. He snipes back under his breath, thinking their raucous conversation will drown him out, but it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. Everyone around the table stares at him. Including Scott.

“You’re not better than us,” Scott tells him firmly. “Don’t be an elitist bitch.”

“Don’t call me a bitch. It’s true. It’s not like you know the difference.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about us. Or about me. You’re pretty clearly not interested in learning.”

The gang is weirdly quiet and Mitch knows he’s making a scene, but his frustration has reached its peak. “It’s not that hard to know you when you have no concept of boundaries or decorum,” he sneers. “You’re all loud and obnoxious and you’ll shout about anything whether people want to listen or not.”

“You wanna stereotype us, you better look in the mirror, princess,” Scott growls. “I know you’re used to your ivory tower, but sooner or later, you gotta learn how the world works.”

Scott’s face is tight with barely concealed anger. He’s still touching Mitch’s shoulder, but his grip has gone stiff. It’s a little bit hot, and Mitch’s cheeks burn with the sudden desire to needle Scott again, just for some more of these reactions. His usual conquests don’t display any sort of dominance, and Scott doing so—especially when the power dynamics are so clearly weighted in Mitch’s direction—is thrilling and sexy.

But maybe the scales aren’t so tipped, because Scott grabs Mitch’s arm and drags him out of the booth. He takes Mitch into the bathroom and locks the door behind them before shoving Mitch against the wall. Mitch is viscerally reminded how much bigger Scott is, how much stronger. He remembers what part of town they’re in, and how he has no friends here. His heart races as Scott looms over him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Scott snaps. “Are you trying to make them hate you?”

“I don’t care what they think of me,” Mitch replies he says dismissively. He searches Scott’s eyes for a brief moment, trying to measure the danger levels. He doesn’t actually know Scott well. Doesn’t know how far he can push. The words tumble from his mouth anyway: “They don’t matter.”

Scott locks eyes with him and breathes once, twice, like he’s waiting for something. Mitch’s expression must give him all the answer he needs, because without any more warning, he swings Mitch around and pushes him face-first against the wall. In moments, Mitch’s skinny jeans are shoved down to his knees Scott’s strong hands are pushing at him, spreading his ass and making room for Scott’s slick, hard cock to slide up between his cheeks.

“Is this what you want?” Scott hisses. “Someone to put you in your place?”

“Maybe.”

Scott breathes for a moment. “Say what you wanna say.”

“You don’t matter,” Mitch replies. Scott’s fingernails dig into Mitch’s hip and he moans.

“You need it, don’t you?” Scott says quietly. “You need someone to teach you how to behave. All that fancy prep school bullshit didn’t prepare you for this, huh? And you fuckin’ lecture me about propriety.”

Scott’s voice is low; he’s almost growling in Mitch’s ear, and Mitch stops pushing back. He’s got Scott riled up enough now to see this through without any more prompting. Scott stretches him open with two fingers, quick and perfunctory, and it burns when he thrusts his cock in. It’s too fast and too rough and Mitch’s knees feel like rubber; Scott, shoved up against his back, pinning him to the wall, is the only thing keeping him upright.

Scott grabs a handful of Mitch’s short hair and pulls his head back. He doesn’t have a good grip but he doesn’t really need one. It stings and Mitch is more than willing to tilt his chin up toward the ceiling.

“If you think I got time for your elitist bullshit, you are sorely mistaken. You better fuckin’ learn how to respect people quick because I’m not gonna tell you twice. You aren’t better than any of us just because you’ve got money, princess. You’re gonna go the fuck out there, all marked up and fucked hard, and you’re gonna fuckin’ apologize for being a little bitch, you understand me?”

Mitch gasps, _yes_ , and presses his hands flat to the wall. There’s nothing to grab onto but smooth, slick tile, and each of Scott’s thrusts drive his body into them. His cock leaves a smear of precome that feels cold and wet and disgusting, and Mitch hates it and loves it at once. His fingers slide and squeak as he struggles against the wall, digging his nails into the grout. If he thinks too hard about what he’s touching, the sexiness of this situation would immediately diminish to zero, but right now, in the heat of the moment, it’s turning him on. It’s messy and humiliating and hot as hell. His cock is rock hard, and he’d give anything to stroke himself, but he wants to see what Scott will do, first.

He expects Scott to touch him, but it doesn’t happen. Scott just keeps up a steady, punishing pace, growling out grunts and groans into Mitch’s ear, driving Mitch up on his toes with the force of each thrust. Mitch’s entire body tenses as shockwaves of pleasure radiate through him, and then Scott fits his mouth to the exposed side of Mitch’s neck and Mitch shudders at the initial tickle of his beard. The rough scratching juxtaposed with the fiery, wet touch of his lips and tongue makes Mitch moan loudly.

Then Scott bites him, hard, and Mitch can’t even summon the voice for a cry. He goes completely silent as Scott’s teeth clamp down, unable to even breathe through the mingled pain and ecstasy. His blood pounds, thunder to match the lightning bolt of sensation arcing through him, and he realizes he’s coming, without his cock even being touched.

It takes him a few moments to recover his breath, and Scott fucks him through it, continuing until his own orgasm, soothing the bite mark with his tongue and his soft lips.

When they pull apart, Scott takes a few steps back and gives Mitch space to approach the mirror. The bite is red, a splotchy mark where Mitch’s neck meets his shoulder, and it’s tender enough that Mitch is sure it will deepen into a bruise. He’ll just have to be aware of what clothes he wears for a while, to make sure it’s covered up.

Scott doesn’t help him clean up this time. He stands against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Mitch wipes himself down with a paper towel.

“I’m tired of fucking you in dirty bathrooms,” he says. “I wanna date you for real.”

Mitch scoffs and tosses the paper towel away. He takes a moment to put his clothes back in order, cinching his belt tight and yanking the wrinkles out of his shirt. “You can’t afford to date me,” he mutters, and turns to unlock the bathroom door.

“You want me to call you a whore, all you gotta do is ask, princess,” Scott snaps. He takes one long step forward and grabs for Mitch’s arm, twisting his grip until Mitch hisses in pain. “I’m your bit of rough, right? Who says I need to pay? You’re the one slumming.”

“That’s not…” Except it is, it’s exactly what Mitch has been doing.

“You want to keep slutting around with me, you better stoop to my level. No fancy dinner dates or ballroom dancing. I’m gonna take you out how I want to take you out. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To live this life?”

“Yes,” Mitch whispers.

“Let me tell you something, then, Mitchy. You better learn quick to have some respect for me and my friends. I’ll fuck you as rough as you want, but you ain’t in any place to humiliate us and how we live. You got that?”

“I got it.”

“Good. You can go.”

Mitch wrenches his hand out of Scott’s grasp and gives him one last look. “Why do you wanna date me, anyway? We hate each other. Is the sex not enough for you?”

Scott shrugs. “I don’t hate you, princess. I like you. Even when you’re an entitled little bitch.”

***

Two months later, Mitch no longer feels like a trespasser in Scott’s world. He’s been out enough times, made semi-polite conversation with enough people, that the dingy, sticky bars Scott takes him to are just a fact of life. Kevin, Scott’s best friend and the other leader of the pack, even makes a point to always include Mitch in the group’s plans, whether Mitch actually shows up or not.

Scott slings his arm around Mitch’s shoulder, casually fitting their bodies together in the narrow booth. This is another thing that feels normal, now, and Mitch is glad of it. Scott’s friends don’t even bat an eye at their closeness, at Scott’s overly affectionate and possessive cuddling. It’s nice, actually, to feel accepted and protected this way.

Mitch turns his head to look up at Scott. There’s a softness to Scott’s expression when he’s in a good mood, something about his face that makes him seem younger. The opposite happens when his temper flares up; the stern, angry set of his brow gives him maturity he doesn’t actually possess, and Mitch finds it incredibly sexy. He knows better, now, than to poke and prod and incite an argument. Scott always gives him whatever rough treatment he asks for without the needling.

Kevin cuts into the conversation, interrupting Scott and smoothly taking over, and Mitch looks over at him. Then past him, to the glimpse of blonde hair near the door.

He’d recognize Kirstie anywhere, and she looks out of place in this environment, in her expensive dress and sparkly jewelry. The man on her arm is her affair of the moment, a younger boy who apparently has a sense of adventure and enjoys the thrill of risk, if they’re venturing to this part of town for a date.

Kirstie’s gaze meets Mitch’s and she drags her boy toy over to their table.

“Mitchell!” she says. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Mitch replies pointedly. Scott and Kevin and all of their friends watch the interaction with bated breath, tension building as they try to figure out whether the newcomers are a threat.

Kirstie’s quiet for a few eternal seconds as she studies the way Scott has his arm around Mitch’s shoulders before realization dawns. Mitch can see the memory of that first night returning to her. She gives Mitch a knowing smirk. “Is this where you’ve been sneaking off to the past few months?”

“I’m not the only one sneaking around,” Mitch says, nodding at her date.

The boy is looking decidedly uncomfortable, shifting his weight and fidgeting with his hands even as Kirstie clutches his arm to keep him from running off. He leans down toward her and hisses, “I thought you were dating him.”

Scott’s arm coils tighter around Mitch, squeezing around his neck possessively. There’s tension in his body and protectiveness in his touch, and Mitch reaches up to soothe him, stroking his hand gently down Scott’s forearm. He rubs back and forth, grazing his fingertips over Scott’s wrist, and finally links their hands. The nature of their relationship couldn’t be more obvious.

Kirstie laughs at the display and pats her boy’s cheek. “Oh, honey,” she murmurs.

Scott clears his throat. “Mitch?”

“This is my best friend, Kirstin,” Mitch says, his long-ingrained manners coming automatically in response to Scott’s prompting. “My… girlfriend, you could say. Kirstie, this is, uh…”

Mitch trails off uncertainly and looks up at Scott’s face again. Scott’s waiting, expressionless, utterly neutral. He’s always careful not to pressure Mitch about labels and openness; Mitch knows labels don’t matter, not right now, not when it’s clear and he’s out to Kirstie already, but it still feels important. Significant.

“Kirstie, this is Scott,” he says at last. “My boyfriend.”

Scott squeezes Mitch’s fingers, then takes his arm from around Mitch’s shoulders to extend his hand to Kirstie. They shake, grinning at each other like they’ve been friends for years. “Nice to meet you, Kirstie. Do you wanna join our group for a drink?”

Kirstie glances at her date, then looks back at Mitch, smiling conspiratorially. “Mark and I are on a little adventure tonight,” she replies, “but Mitchell? You’d better call me later. We have a lot to discuss. I expect we’ll be talking more soon, Scott. It’s good to finally meet the man special enough that Mitch kept a secret from me.”

She and Mark make their exit, and Kevin laughs. “Aw, Scotty, you’re special!” he coos.

“Shut up,” Mitch grumbles good-naturedly. He scoots down in his seat and takes Scott’s arm, loops it back around his neck. Back where it belongs.

 

 _fin_.


End file.
